


AU Ficlet Collection

by DunkMeToHell



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mermaids, Minor Injuries, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Royalty AU, and the comfort is antibacterial soap, except the hurt is literal this time, i.e. Really Long Form Rambling both regarding and disregarding fucking, long form fucking rambling, there's no individual mermaid tag how dumb is that, this is just a cluster
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2019-10-26 08:51:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17742818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DunkMeToHell/pseuds/DunkMeToHell
Summary: Collection of romantic oneshots taking place across multiple AUs.Ch. 1: Brian Kendrick/Jack GallagherCh. 2: Mustafa Ali/Cedric Alexander (EX)





	1. Brian/Jack (Mermaid)

**Author's Note:**

> This will hopefully be a much more efficient idea than just clogging my works list with an endless precession of AU oneshots.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fisherman catches something quite unexpected.

The sun casts out ribbons of light like lines from a reel, dangling out into the open green sea where the glimmer is blinding. Brian holds a hand out to blot the horizon, again stumbling wearily. His whole posture, whole person, really, dangles tiredly on his skeleton. Besides the soreness that comes built into his muscles—just another reminder of the age he’s starting to come onto—it has already been a tiring enough day as is.

When Brian is spotted along the docks, stepping with a bowed head into the shops to buy yards of netting, no one speaks _to_ him anymore; just _of_ him, in muted, faint whispers behind his back. Decrepit, foolish, sometimes perhaps beastly himself, certainly growing demented in his age—

Brian scoffs and rubs the joint on the back of his neck with disdain. He isn’t dead _yet_ , as long as his chestnut brown hair is, as strong as his arms are, and as powerful as his lungs are that he can still spit at everyone who thinks that they’re out of his range of hearing. His eyes, too, as watery, as blue-under-storming-gray as the sea itself, are still as sharp and perceptive as they’ve ever been. And he’s still smart enough to know what he’s seen.

Of course, Brian knows, if he’d seen a man in a boat out in the middle of the bay, raving about having spotted several young men breaching on rocks, long, shimmering tails like fish in place of legs—well, he would only think that man had gone suddenly mad as well.

But he’d _seen_ them, he’d seen them, he would insist to anybody who had enough pity to speak to him about it. All of them, lounging in a row, at least four—scales ranging what had then seemed like a whole galaxy of colors, touching from gold-to-red to violet-to-rose to blue-to-silver and ever more, each glinting across the spectrum as they fanned their tails out in the sunlight—the same sunlight that now blinds Brian as he settles tiredly down onto his stone by the mouth of the shore.

He had watched them smile, giggle, guilelessly flip back under the crest of the waves, diving into the depths of the sea before anyone else had a second to catch a glimpse. The secret, no matter how he would love to share it, is his.

Brian sighs, leaning down to run his fingers through the knots of his wind-torn hair. After a day like this, the last thing he wants to do is pull in his nets to find them empty again.

But, as Brian stalks over to the edge of the rock, tugging on the edges of his net—he gasps as he’s nearly pulled into the breast of the sea by some strong, resistant force, jerking back against him. Brian releases the net, letting it splash softly into the surface of the water as he falls onto his knees.

Huffing, Brian rubs his eyes with the back of his wrists, hissing softly as the residue of salt on his skin makes them sting. He swears he must be hallucinating as he stares out into the water— _something_ , out in the grasp of his net, is tossing and turning, flipping about the water, raising its edges in splashing drops of light as if struggling severely, something great and shimmering trying its fiercest to break free.

Quickly, Brian rolls up his cuffs to the knee and wades into the shallows, determinedly clutching the edges of the net. This one will not be getting away from him.

A strongman would blush at the way Brian now yanks at the net, nearly dragging it into the skidding shell and pebble that lines the shore, and he would be more proud of it if not for the doubled resistance that now meets him. First a mighty splash of cold saltwater is flung into his nose and eyes, making him wheeze and gasp blindly in pain. Then there’s a fierce pull, the sound of a sharp “slap” against the surface, and in an instant Brian finds himself nose-deep in the wet sand, choking on the water that seeps into his nostrils.

It’s as Brian is gagging, gathering his bearings, that he finally hears it unmistakably—

_“Grr—mmg—nng!!”_

Brian nearly falls down flat again. A young man’s voice, struggling and ensnared in his net, trapped in the untamed waves of the now-rising tide. Brian quickly reaches into his back pocket, feeling for his whalebone-handled knife. As the sting of the water clears from his vision, he spots the bleached orange weights of the net vanishing around the corner of an outcropping boulder. Brian gives a sloshing chase—whatever or whomever he’s caught, it’s hellbent on squirming home on its own.

“Stop!” Brian cries out to the thing as he rounds out the edge of the rock. “I’m gonna cut you out of there, hold on—“

 _“No!”_ The voice cries out again, now further up the shallows. Brian grunts as he finally pulls his ankle free of a small sinkhole at the edge of the boulder.

“Please, please...” Brian huffs, lifting his eyes, “just let me try to...”

Brian’s words trail off into silence, broken only barely by the sound of his dagger striking the water as he drops it.

By now, the young man has exhausted himself, having hauled himself ashore, across the small beach by the skin of his stomach. He now lies wheezing on his back, while his belly, encrusted by shards of pink and orange seashells and brown seaweed, bleeds slowly into the sand. The thick cords of the fishing net force his body to twist around uncomfortably, arms pulled one way and the other by the sturdy rope. Needless to say, he’s soaking wet, hair slicked to his forehead and scattering droplets of saltwater into his hazel eyes, which now look upon Brian with impunity. His long tail, fish-like and tiled in glistening turquoise scales, slaps rapidly against the surface of the sand, anxious and afraid.

Brian swallows several times, but his throat remains dry as he just stares at his haul for what certainly must be minutes.

Either he was never mad at all, or he’s too deep in madness now to ever get out.

He takes a step towards the man on the beach, who instantly flinches and flops, hissing as he tries in vain to claw himself free, succeeding only in deepening the scratches the rope has already left on his face and chest. The sight fills Brian’s chest with a pain that he’s never felt, so he raises his hands in innocent intention.

“I...will not...hurt you…” he speaks slowly, and, likely, rather stupidly. But the frenzied look in the merman’s eyes cools down into a pleading curiosity.

 _“Hoo-_ min?” He asks, voice so quick and urgent that Brian chuckles without even thinking about it.

“Human, yes,” Brian says, slowly kneeling down into the water to retrieve his knife. The man spasms again as he notices, so, hurriedly, Brian goes on. “I won’t hurt you. Want to help. Promise.”

Again, the creature’s breathing seems to slow, and he relaxes slightly on his elbows as he pants.

“Please, _get me out of this thing,_ ” he begs, in a voice again so crisp and clear that Brian is nearly thrown off. He slowly approaches, cautious not to scare his catch, and crouches down with his knife, carefully cutting the ropes as the creature flinches and trembles. In the back of his mind, Brian is fretting—this net was meant to last him the rest of this month, and he surely couldn’t pay to replace it so soon—but all worry and emotion is washed out by a sense of wonder at the little creature that is really, truly before him.

Soon, the man is growing calm, gratefully shaking his arms out in the sand as he is finally freed. Brian drops the last shred of the net to the ground, letting the creature stretch out and sigh, tail curling upward and flicking little drops of water about.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you...” he gasps, over and over and over until Brian is blushing, meekly tucking a lock of his hair behind his ear.

“It’s...it’s fine,” Brian says. “Don’t mention it.”

Accordingly, the man goes quiet, but gazes up into his eyes—the eyes of a captor turned savior—with some bit of wonder. Brian almost scoffs at the notion, that a being as iridescent and rare as he could ever be fascinated by _him,_ the common fisherman, barnacle-studded and damaged by the saltwater and wind.

He expects the creature to now flip back onto his stomach, bid maybe a vague farewell and slither back into the waters where he belonged, but for some unfathomable reason, he stays, greenish tail and greenish eyes both glinting brightly in the sun.

A low thrill rolls down Brian’s spine as a thousand thoughts swirl in at once. He’s staying put, he has his proof lying right before him on the shore. He could show all of them, bring them here and show them his little capture.

But, as rapid and as many as those thoughts are, Brian can’t help but place them aside as he notices the poor thing’s stomach.

“You’re bleeding,” Brian says as he crouches down into the sand by the creature’s side, lying a hand onto his lower chest to hold him still for inspection. He hisses, tail twitching, and Brian quickly pulls his hand away, realizing that he’s settled down upon a purpling bruise.

“God,” Brian murmurs, sitting back, “I’m sorry...”

The more he looks over the thing’s body, the more worse for wear he seems to become. Bruises on his chest and hips range across the spectrum, from yellowish brown to near purple, standing starkly out against his skin (so pale, Brian thinks, like the inside of a well-fried codfish, or the foam the ocean leaves upon the sand). His tail, too, looks like it has been knicked about, little red slivers peeking between the green in patches where scales have been lost.

An ache of guilt forms in Brian’s throat as he slowly reaches forward, carefully taking the merman by the arm. He immediately whines with the pain, trying to jerk it free from Brian’s grasp.

“Hey—hey—it’s okay!” Brian says as the merman flops back, scrambling away on its palms. “I want to _help_ you…”

The creature’s frenzied eyes look upon the man stepping towards him with reproach. Something in them, Brian notices as he slowly settles down onto his knees, seems to contradict itself. He feels the little thing looking on him with fear, and yet—somehow, at the same time—with pleading hope as well.

“I want to help you…” Brian repeats carefully, as if he hadn’t understood the first time, but the merman barely moves at all but to shield himself with his arm.

“I’m fine,” he lies, voice now soft and ashamed. 

Brian frowns, tilting his head to the side and trailing his eyes down the poor thing’s body. He takes him in inch by inch—first his ginger hair, slowly drying until it glows amber in the sun, then those deep, dusk-colored bruises on his chest, until finally finishing at that _tail_ , coiled up and shining like a polished spring, held tightly to his body as if he were trying to shrink and disappear.

Brian feels a moment’s urge to press a hand to the merman’s pale cheek, but pushes it down. Instead, he tries a patient smile, saying, “I know you say that, but you’re in bad shape. Come on, I have bandages in my house—“

“Bandages?” The man repeats slowly, tilting his head. Brian tries not to hit himself—of course someone who’d spent their life underwater wouldn’t have heard of those.

“Stuff to help you with...” Brian clarifies with a sigh. “Please, it’s not far. I can take you.”

At once, the man bristles, indignantly pushing himself up on his elbows. “Take me? _Take_ me?”

“What, can you move yourself?” Brian asks, gesturing down to the merman’s blood-and-shell crusted belly, his lacerated tail. The merman balks, silently staring up at Brian with his bright hazel eyes. His cheeks turn lightly pink, seeming near peach in the light of the sunset. Brian locks eyes with him, and the merman’s lips just tremble a moment, fighting for some response until he finally sighs, looking down in surrender. Brian smiles slyly, then kneels down. With a grunt, he heaves up the young man in his arms, who gasps, squirming awkwardly—appropriately, much like a large catfish torn straight from the water, although this one is (Brian thinks to himself) considerably less ugly.

“Alright, Venus,” Brian chuckles as he walks, “let’s get you fixed up.”

* * *

 

Brian’s cottage is only a brief jog up the beach, sitting at the edge of a small outcropping of limestone just upshore. The outside is disordered, of Brian’s own construction; various grades and types of wood laid side by side: a panel of aspen here, a board of cedar there, occasionally a simple hunk of driftwood that had washed ashore one day was suited for the job. Intermittently a small stone may have been wedged in to fill gaps. The pathway is barely maintained, weeds kept clear only by the monotonous trudging of Brian’s heavy boots to and from his home every day, and still overrun by thick roots and the sand, which coarsened to gravel at the higher ground.

The inside is of an equal disarray. There is little decoration—an oceanfarer had little use for it, even if he were merely a fisherman—amongst all the clutter. Bottles of wine sit clustered in three of four corners of the square, single-room house, some filled with the velvet red drink and some already emptied. The table is dressed by a variety of silvery fishlines, hooks both fresh and rusted, and skeleton keys of doors unknown even to Brian. Simple olive-colored drapes are tossed to either side of the single window, located in the kitchen, which shows, under a dusty pane of glass, the vista of the sun over the sea when Brian awakens every morning. There is no bed, but a blanket and pillow thrown into a ratty armchair next to the table. In the center of the room is a black iron furnace, roaring with an orange flame, and just before this furnace now sits the wooden wash basin, where the merman sits half-submerged, tail hanging out over the edge. A smile is on his face.

“I think I like this,” he declares, sinking lower into the tub until his lips are covered. He blows bubbles between the bristles of his mustache.

Brian, perched by the tub on a small stool and armed with the soap, can’t help but chuckle. “Do you, now? You were so opposed to the idea on the beach.”

The merman makes a soft _“hmph”_ , tilting back his head lazily. “That was before I knew how nice it would be...”

Brian bends in with the bar of soap, and his guest flexes up his tail. Carefully, he scrapes the soap against his scales until a light foam forms, and the merman’s face puckers as it seeps into a wound. Brian frowns, cupping water in his hand and carefully rinsing.

“Sorry, uh...um...”

The merman smiles weakly through the sting. “I’m called Jack.”

“Jack.” Brian repeats the name, smirking faintly. “I like that.”

Jack’s hazel eyes glimmer softly, flecked with warm yellow spots from the fire of the furnace, but he says nothing and slinks shyly down into the water. Brian pouts a bit, tilting his head.

“Oh, come on,” he says, reaching into the tub and lightly splashing Jack’s face with his fingers. “Your kind is so damn shy, you know that?”

Jack gives another little _“hmph”_ , splashing Brian back with a flick of his tail. “And _your_ kind are awfully annoying.”

Brian acts like he thinks nothing of this statement, instead reaching for the metal tweezers on the table. Jack recognizes the intent almost right away and bites his lip, bracing himself as he arches up, lifting his shell-encrusted belly up from the water. Brian shakes his head, bending in with the tweezers.

“Poor thing,” Brian says gravely as he lowers the tweezers to the skin of Jack’s stomach, gently tugging out small, sharp fragments. Jack grits his teeth tightly, trapping a whimper of pain. One by one, each little shard comes out, each as stinging as the last—but Jack, even as a little tear drips down his cheek from his eyelashes, remains firm and silent, just clutching the wooden edges of the tub until his knuckles grow white.

At last, Brian drops the last little glinting piece of shell into the waste, and sets the tweezers aside. Jack cautiously opens an eye and finds Brian smiling at him sympathetically has he dampens a cloth.

“Not bad,” he says as he runs the cloth across Jack’s belly, seeping up the droplets of blood. “You handled that like a man.”

Jack turns his head, trying to conceal a blush and a faint grin. “Of course I did,” he murmurs, hoping to sound even the slightest bit nonchalant. “You humans are too easily impressed.”

Brian’s smile becomes an amused smirk. “Oh, really? And how many have you met?”

Jack blushes, his tail curling indignantly. “O-one....” he confesses, crossing his arms tightly about his chest. “But he _did_ trap me up in a fishing net.”

The hurt in Brian’s eyes is immediately apparent as he sits back, wringing the blood and water from the rag into a waste bucket. “I’m sorry,” he solemnly says. “I never expected _this...”_

Jack sighs, slinking back down into the tub. “I know…I know you didn’t,” he admits. Brian’s expression remains a bit hurt, so Jack tries to put a reassuring smile onto his face. “You know...you _did_ free me. I couldn’t have done a thing in that current.”

Brian lifts his eyes, looking a bit encouraged, yet still regretful. “So? It’s what anybody would’ve done.”

He’s surprised by the simple way that Jack shakes his head.

“Not at all. It’s not what’s expected of humans.”

The regret in Brian’s eyes now gives way to curiosity. He hums, jutting his jaw from side to side as he sits back on his stool. “You really don’t care much for humans down there, huh?”

Jack shrugs his shoulders. “There’s only so much of the ocean, mister...” he trails off for a moment, realizing that Brian’s name has eluded him. Brian smiles and says, helpfully, “Brian Kendrick. But I like my first name more, y’know.”

Jack nods seriously, and resumes. “Only so much of the ocean, Mr. Kendrick. I won’t lie to you, we’re awfully frightened—all those sharp hooks dancing in the water. That’s why we stay out there. Think you’ll start trying to reel _us_ in too, and start peeling off our skin and serving our meat at market—”

Brian can’t help but raise an eyebrow. “For someone who’s supposed to be staying away, you sure know a lot about our habits, it looks like.”

Jack blushes as his expression softens a bit. “I...I do stray away from the schools, occasionally,” he confesses.

“Oh, yeah?” Brian asks, amusedly. “Now, why would a straight fellow like you do something like—”

“Oh, _hush,”_ Jack grumbles, folding his arms. “You know. I was just...dreadfully curious about you.”

Here Jack pauses, glancing into Brian’s eyes to see if the words have stuck. Brian just squints, suspecting the answer but not quite certain, so Jack repeats, “about _you.”_

Now it seems to click as Brian’s eyes widen slightly. “About _me,_ you mean...?”

Jack nods, turning over onto his side to look up at Brian, chin resting on the rim of the tub. “I heard some other men discussing someone they’d seen while sunbathing, some weeks ago. Saw him in a little boat with a line out in the water. When he caught a look at them, he seemed shocked.” Jack squints and lifts a finger, tracing it over each of Brian’s features like a checklist as he speaks. “Dark brown hair, blue-green eyes, hunched over like a humpback—”

Brian bristles, his face turning red. “You people got great eyesight, huh?”

Jack grins cheekily. “That last bit was mine, just now.”

Despite his efforts, Brian laughs softly at that. At least they still know about jokes, down there.

“I knew that there was a port, up there, but I’d only seen humans in glimpses,” Jack goes on, pressing his hand thoughtfully to his cheek. “They look so small out on the piers, I thought they’d be littler...”

“You never got any closer?” Brian asks. Jack shrugs his shoulders.

“Was afraid to. But when I heard that they’d seen you, that you were just as surprised as them...well, I got...curious.”

Jack pauses, looking into Brian’s eyes for a reaction, finding them simple and unassuming, just patiently waiting for him to go on. Somehow, the expression causesa tremor in the pit of Jack’s belly. He shifts nervously in the now-cooled water, arching his tail up to catch the warmth of the dying furnace flame. “It was a couple of weeks ago when I started. Didn’t get too close at first; just saw you in a boat and I watched from some yards away behind a rock.” Jack pauses, looking pensive as he recollects. “You weren’t fishing, though...you weren’t doing anything. Just rowed out a ways and sat there.”

Brian nods slightly. True—he does sometimes go out on the water to be alone in the evenings (of course, he’s always alone—but it’s a much different experience when he believes he’s made the choice).

In the same moment, Jack’s eyes grow distant, his voice soft and kept almost to himself. “You seemed...rather sad, actually. You always did, no matter where you were, what you were doing...”

Brian smiles resignedly. “You felt sorry for me, huh?” He asks with a sigh. “That’s what you’re trying to say, right?”

Jack winces and blushes. “N-no, not that; not at all. But I was...”

Brian tilts his head back as Jack trails off. “You were...?”

“Well...” Jack hums, running his wet hands across the drying skin of his neck, “I was just wondering why you seemed so despondent.”

Brian shrugs in dismissal of the question, ignoring the thought that he, too, wishes he knew the answer. “What did you do after that?” He asks, changing course.

“Every day I’d get a little bit closer to watch you. Today was actually the first day I’d worked up enough nerve to try approaching the shore,” Jack says. He looks down to his torso, splotched with purple bruises, and grimaces. “Some luck I had with that, hm?”

Jack seems to sense Brian’s guilty expression before it even has a chance to form on his face, because he sits up in the tub, quickly adding, “but it’s not much due to you. Really; I got trapped in the tide before I ever got in your net.”

Brian makes a noise in his throat, sounding like a chuckle without quite becoming one. “Tide or not, you took a pretty bad beating, there.” He stands up from his stool and walks to the table, picking up a small box filled with several rolls of bandages. “Was it worth the trouble?”

“...Maybe.”

Jack’s voice takes on a softness that Brian has never heard—not once from him this evening; maybe not even once from anyone in his life. In his tone lies some undercurrent, something muted that Brian cannot define but can definitely _feel,_ sending a surge of confusing warmth throughout his skin.

“W-what was that?” He asks, turning his head to look at Jack, who merely coughs into his fist.

“E-excuse me, you said you had some ‘bandages’, or something like that?” He asks, cursing himself for stuttering. Brian nods, scurrying back with the box and settling back down on his stool. Jack raises his tail and Brian gets to work, tightly binding up the injuries. A smile, timid and fleeting, crosses Jack’s face as Brian lightly pats the dressed wound. A nod passes for a thank you; Brian flashes a smile back, equally uneasy in the pit of his stomach—and yet, somehow, the feeling isn’t wholly unwelcome. Just having Jack in his washbasin is more excitement than he’s experienced in several years.

Still, there’s a silent moment between them, each at a bit of a loss, and Brian’s confidence falters. He sniffs at the air, heavy with the scent of ocean water, and tugs the frayed strands of his hair. His eyes remain trained on Jack in a way that makes the latter’s heartbeat stutter.

“I…may be lonely.”

Jack is roused from a haze of thought that he didn’t even realize he was lost in. “What? What was that?”

“I said, I might be lonely,” Brian hums, elbow on his knee and chin in his hand. “Nobody really likes talking to me, and I don’t like to bother them. I live by myself out here. Hell, I rarely even go out into town.”

Jack is quiet, tipping his head to the side and looking at Brian, expecting him to go on. Brian flushes and rubs the back of his neck. “I-I guess that might be why I looked…sad, to you.”

“Lonely.” Jack repeats the word out into the darkness, as if merely confirming its existence. He looks on Brian with soft, sympathetic eyes, while Brian just stares at a crack in the floor, wringing the rag between his hands. After a moment, Jack at last thinks to ask, “why wouldn’t people like to talk to you, Mr. Kendrick?”

Brian leans back, stretching out his legs. “Oh, I’m insane, I hear. They think I can’t hear them whispering about it. I’m full of crazy ideas, like...” abruptly, Brian pauses, and chuckles. Jack leans forward in the tub, twisting around to look into his face.

“Like what? What?”

Brian smirks playfully. “Like mermaids, Jack.”

Jack feels a strange pang in his chest, a smile being reciprocated as he looks into Brian’s eyes; the sense of the ocean surrounding him even now, in the middle of this drafty and unfamiliar room. If only he could be submerged...

“Well, _we_ do know the truth, now...” Jack hums, tilting his head as he gazes into Brian’s bottomless eyes. “Don’t we?”

Brian stares right back into Jack’s eyes, the hazel glowing against the dying embers of the furnace. He can’t keep a smirk from his lips. “Oh, we do...but I don’t feel like I want to tell anyone, somehow...”

Jack looks genuinely confused. “You don’t?”

“Nope.” The look in Brian’s eyes somehow darkens, yet remains sincere. “I don’t think I wanna share you.”

Jack is certain his heart skips a beat. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Brian hums, as if what he just said had no importance. “After all, it’s pretty dangerous out there for a little fishie like you, isn’t it?”

Jack knows he should feel patronized by Brian’s terminology and smirk, yet finds himself becoming more and more charmed.

“Oh, yes...” Jack nods in agreement. Suddenly, with his large fin, he urges Brian closer, nearly sending him stumbling into the water.

“...but I feel so safe in here with you...”

Brian smiles, allowing Jack to hold him in place. “Well, then, I won’t ask you to leave...”

Jack tilts his head, his hazel eyes glinting. The furnace has mostly gone out by now, leaving only a few dying embers behind. “Then what _will_ you ask me, Mr. Kendrick...?”

The mischief fleets from Brian’s expression, which instead becomes sheepish in a way that makes Jack smile.

“A-actually, I...” Brian stutters, scratching his scalp, “I have a lot of questions to ask you...”

Jack nods. “As do I you. But you may start.”

Brian’s cheeks darken as he sits back and clears his throat. “Well...how long have you been out there?”

Jack purses his lips as he thinks. “Oh, about as long as you all have, I suppose. Maybe longer. I’ve heard some speak about before this port even existed.”

“How do you breathe?” Brian moves on, eyes gleaming with interest.

Jack arches back his neck enough to expose a row of three thin slitted gills, surrounded by faintly shimmering scales melting into the color of his flesh. Brian’s index finger twitches with the urge to touch them.

“Underwater. Out on land, we prefer our nostrils and mouths, as I’m sure you’ve noticed?”

Brian does nothing to hide how he stares at Jack’s lips after this comment. “Oh, I’ve noticed...”

Jack notices the action, and again he feels his pulse quicken. He clears his throat. “I-if you don’t mind, Mr. Kendrick, I do have a question for you as well—”

“Say, does everyone down there talk like that?”

Jack flushes. “Pardon?”

Brian’s shoulders fall back as he puffs out his chest. _“If you do not mind, sir, I do believe that I have a question for you, as well...”_

Jack refrains from slapping Brian with his tail for his ridiculous imitation of his accent, but only barely. He instead flushes, sulking as he sinks down into the water. “If you don’t want to hear my question, then...”

“I do, I do!” Brian relaxes and laughs. “Come on. Please?”

Jack swallows, licking his lips and looking down to the floor. When he lifts his head again his cheeks are deeply red.

“M-mating?”

Brian feels the world falling away beneath him. “What?”

“I-it’s just a topic of discussion!” Jack goes on quickly, attempting to defend himself. “It isn’t personal, we just...c-can’t figure out how you _do_ it.”

“How we—” Brian squints incredulously— “how _we_ do it? I should be asking _you_ that question!”

Jack blushes with dismay. “What do you—” he abruptly stops to laugh. “You mean that you can’t tell?”

Brian runs a hand through the knots of his hair. “I-I...no. Am I supposed to?”

Jack smiles amusedly, resting his chin on his fist. “I suppose not. We did just meet, after all...”

Brian blows out a puff of air as he looks down into his lap. “I guess it’s n-not too obvious to you then, either...”

Jack hums, his eyes inching down Brian until they, too, fall into his lap—and then widen with curiosity.

“Well...I might have an idea...”

A blush crawls up the back of Brian’s neck as he tries to think of something more eloquent to say, but all at once his throat feels swollen, so he just swallows and nods. “Y-yup...”

Jack watches as Brian shamefully tucks his legs together, and Brian can’t help but notice that he seems rather disappointed as he does, and his loss for words is renewed.

“W-well, to start with...” Brian stutters as he rubs his hands together—the fire is almost gone now, leaving the room cold; yet a single ember stubbornly remains, glistening bright orange in the darkness of dead coals. It’s the only light by which Brian can see Jack, the side of his face, torso and tail loosely contoured in a reddish halo. Something about it catches Brian, makes it difficult to keep his thoughts (or his thighs) together.

“For a m-man of the human species, we...we _provide—_ ”

Jack clicks his tongue suddenly and loudly, slinking down into the water, sloshing and splashing Brian with a sudden cold wave. It seeps right away through his shirt onto his skin, and before Brian can even react to the goosebumps rising up from his flesh, the fin of Jack’s tail is pressed below his chin, tilting his face to gaze into it thoughtfully. Brian sees his expression turn mischievous in the ember’s scarce glow.

“Mr. Kendrick.” Jack’s clear, crisp voice is darkened, now, and cuts down to Brian’s bone.

“J-Jack,” Brian responds, trying to swallow but finding it impossible. Jack smiles.

“I have been busy watching you, for a while now. Observing.”

Brian nods in agreement. “R-right.”

“I’ve gotten so used to watching you, in fact...” the corners of Jack’s odd mustache point up in a beautiful little smirk. “I don’t see any reason why we should stop that arrangement for mere _words_ now.”

A gust of air leaves Brian as he stares, the merman reclining, seeming to bask under his eyes. Here Jack goes again, saying things to leave him wordless, breathless, motionless as he looks at him. Brian hears the blood rushing, racing across his body until he’s trembling and hot.

Shit—Brian finally groans and relents, reaching up to the buttons of his shirt and undoing them.

A dip in the water could be good for him.

Jack giggles softly, though he tries to hide it, dipping his face below the edge of the water, leaving only his merry eyes peering up at Brian as he disrobes. Somehow Brian can sense their glimmer, and suddenly can’t keep himself from smiling either.

“Shit,” he grumbles playfully, “if I’d known how curious you were I’d have left you in that net...”

“And then what?” Jack croons. He feels his pulse quickening, adrenaline flooding him as Brian crawls forward into the tub.

“Then,” Brian purrs, “you’d’ve been stuck in there, all alone until the sharks came to take a little bite outta you...”

When speaking of predators, Brian bares his teeth, white and sharp enough to make Jack shiver with anticipation.

“Aren’t I so lucky you saved me?” He whispers, grabbing Brian’s shoulders with surprising force. Their eyes meet and lock together, and even in the room now cloaked by shadow, Brian finds Jack’s eyes a whirlpool, shimmering like the sea he had been trapped in just hours before.

“Yeah.” Brian swallows, feeling the tide rising within him. “O-one of us is lucky, anyway...”

Jack pulls Brian to his body sharply, and they become submerged.

* * *

 

The hour creaks past midnight. The house is wheezing with a cold draft, the breath rolling off the sea. Brian fears that ice will soon coat his skin, freeze him into the wooden basin where he still sits. His hands are shriveled, too pruned to feel any sensation even as he slowly slides a palm down the length of Jack’s pale back.

The two of them are still together in the water, intertwined with each others’ bodies like links on a chain—Brian’s arm across Jack’s shoulders; Jack’s arms laced sleepily around Brian’s waist; tail tangled around legs until they’re locked together in a knot. Jack’s head rests just below Brian’s jaw, one piece squeezed against the other until they resemble an awkward jigsaw puzzle. It’s so uncomfortable, so cold, and, to Brian, it feels absolutely ideal.

They’re both sleepy, yet trying their hardest to stave it off with heavy-lidded eyes and crackling voices and slow, heavy breaths. Sleep is slowly winning. Jack is further gone than Brian, focus nowhere, staring vacantly at the far wall as he just breathes. Brian can’t help but watch with interest—he had never noticed it before, but with every breath, the row of slitted gils on Jack’s neck gently twitch, and now he watches it with a dreamy fascination.

“No one will ever believe this.”

Brian is roused by the sound of Jack’s voice, as hazy and thick as the fog that stretches along the horizon. Brian tries to blink the sleep from his eyes, turning to face the bleary smudge that is Jack curled into his side. “Hm?”

“Oh, you know...” Jack laughs softly in his throat. His fingers reach up and idly play with the ends of Brian’s hair. “No one will believe that we met...neither here nor where I come from.”

Brian hums, tilting into Jack’s touch, letting him braid together the loose strands. “Funny, isn’t it?” He says, too tired for something more meaningful. Jack repeats the muted chuckle.

“Suppose so. It’ll be our little secret that I was ever here...”

It’s as Jack trails off, fingers going still in his hair, that Brian realizes something is wrong; something is weighing over Jack’s mind like a storm. It’s written in the lines of his face, the crease between his brow as he stares at Brian, as if he’s longing for something he can’t have.

“You’re going away,” Brian says with a sad smile, “aren’t you?”

Jack’s face bubbles up with pain and surprise. “How did you know?”

Brian sighs, turning to the window, gazing at the time gone by the infinite horizon of the ocean. “I’ve seen that look before. You aren’t the first person who’s ever left me, you know.”

Jack’s eyes grow pleading. “It won’t be forever,” he whispers, hand searching for Brian’s, “it’s only that now the night is getting shorter, soon the water will be too cold, and I simply must—”

Brian silences Jack with a soft kiss. He knows the cycles. The gray line forming at the rim of the horizon will soon engulf the skies and drown the oceans black. Brian will shiver in his thick rubber coat and boots out there, nipping his brandy until the flask is empty, and begging for the silvery fish to brave the chill and come to him. Often waves broke over the edge of his dinghy, soaking through his woolen garments into his bones—he would never want to think of Jack out there, the greens of his scales and eyes washed gray by the rough winter seas, cold and frozen to death.

When their lips part, Jack still looks sorry.

“I wasn’t intending in finding a companion in you, Mr. Kendrick. I would never have done this to you otherwise.”

Brian just runs his fingers through Jack’s soft, short hair, and kisses the tips of his ears (ice cold). “Please, Jack, just Brian,” he whispers softly, breath curling around Jack’s earlobe. A trace of a smile crosses Jack’s lips.

“You’re a wonderful man, Brian. I _have_ to return for you.”

Brian returns the smile, in spite of the twinge of sadness in the blue of his eyes. “Just promise me you won’t get trapped in any more nets.”

Jack chuckles. “None that aren’t yours, at least.”

Brian pulls Jack back in, listening to his soft, giggling breath as he tenderly kisses his forehead—and all at once he thinks how it will feel watching him tomorrow, tail glistening as he swims out to the horizon, the last scraps of his bandage wrapping falling away from him and left floating on the surface. Brian shivers. Winter could be unpredictable, anywhere from a fleeting chill in the wind to an interminable storm that dominates four months. To be so far apart...

An idea occurs to Brian as he caresses Jack.

“Let me give you something.”

Jack stirs, eyes narrowed, yet curious. “Oh? What?”

“Just a little piece of me...” Brian smiles coyly, only to be met with Jack tilting his head in alarmed confusion.

“You don’t have to _hurt_ yourself for me, Brian…”

Brian squints, then laughs at Jack’s literal mind. “No, no, I…” he sighs, slowly disentangling himself from Jack’s body and carefully standing. “Let me show you what I mean.”

Jack watches as Brian goes, still dripping wet and shivering, to the table, and begins to sort through the rabble of strings and junk left on the surface. His brow is furrowed in concentration, lips twitching as he searches, occasionally hissing with a mouthed swear as a fish hook pricks his thumb. Jack watches this with fascination until Brian at last stands and returns, hands cupped together. Somehow Jack can sense his eyes gleaming.

“Close your eyes,” Brian says with excitement. A bemused smirk quirks onto Jack’s face, but he sighs and obeys.

“Gimme your hand.”

Again, Jack obliges, extending his palm out towards Brian’s direction. Instantly, something cool strikes the middle of it, heavy and smooth metal. Jack makes a curious noise.

“Humh? What...?”

Brian huffs, settling onto his knees by the edge of the tub. “Alright, Jacky-boy, open up.”

Jack’s eyes flutter open, and his breath leaves him all at once at he watches the little ring in his hand shimmer—golden edges as bright as the flame itself, its warmth centered by a burning oval ruby, containing the reds of blood and the sun rising over the horizon and the color that Jack is certain is flooding his cheeks—

“Brian. God, Brian...” Jack murmurs, marveling as he turns it in his fingers, “what is this pretty thing?”

Brian smirks and rests his cheek on the edge of the tub, gazing up at Jack from below. “Just...a gift.”

Jack tilts his head. “A _gift?”_ He repeats the word, and Brian nods.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard that word,” Brian says. He’s surprised when Jack blushes.

“O-oh...it’s not that I haven’t...” Jack nervously bounces the ring in his hands. “I-it’s only that we tend not to give gifts...u-unless the recipient is...”

“Is? Is what?” Brian urges Jack to go on as he trails off. Jack’s face is suddenly flushed, eyes focusing on the ring instead of on Brian.

“Someone...that...” Jack stops to clear his throat, hoping to clear the tremor from his voice. “S-someone that is...considered... _deeply_ important to the life of the giver. That’s all.”

Brian tries not to chuckle. “Well, yeah. That’s how all gifts work, isn’t it?”

Jack looks as if he wants to clarify further, but instead nods, eager to let the subject pass. He turns his attention back to the little golden ring in his hands.

“Where on earth did you find this...?” He asks. Brian shrugs his shoulders.

“Oh, someone tossed it out in the ocean. You find all kinds of shit out in the water...”

“You mean someone would have thrown this out?” Jack asks, looking scandalized in a way that makes Brian laugh, reach out and gently brush the hair from Jack’s eyes.

“I guess so. One human must not have liked it, but somehow I ended up saving it...”

Brian pauses as he looks at Jack, watches the expression in his face as he turns the ring over and over in his fingers—something so genuine that it warms Brian’s skin.

“...I must’ve been saving it for you.”

Jack holds the trinket to his chest, eyes surprisingly solemn. “I will protect it, Brian. I promise that I will.”

Brian chuckles below his breath. “Damn, it’s not _that_ valuable. I don’t even think it’s a real ruby.”

Jack’s gaze becomes stern. “ _I_ know very well what the value is. More than you will ever understand.”

The statement catches Brian off-guard. He stares at Jack again, expecting his expression to soften, but it remains gravely set—as if this were the most important thing in the world to him.

Brian thinks of it, of all the stories ever woven by merchants and sailors through a haze of wine; of ungodly beautiful men and women flitting by the runners and fanning their silvery tails on the rocks; of their hair studded with pearls and golden combs.

Jack is pure gold, somehow glowing in Brian’s sight in the darkness, overflowing in his basin and filling the room with his presence. Something priceless himself. With all this, Brian wonders, how is he so impressed by one faded ring?

Silently, Jack slips the ring onto his finger. It fits uncannily. “I won’t lose it,” he reiterates.

Brian nods, feeling strange, at peace despite a hole yawning within him. “Do you need me to take you back to the ocean in the morning?”

Jack pauses a moment, then shakes his head. “No, no. I...I can handle the journey, I think.”

Brian tries to hide how he deflates. “Are you sure...? You’re just going to _flop_ out yourself?”

Jack nods sharply. “I’m certain. It isn’t too far to the shore, after all...”

Brian exhales, thinking of how oddly determined Jack looks. “I really don’t want you to, but…”

“You can’t stop me.”  
Brian nods. “I can’t. Right.”

Jack’s smile is reassuring, yet somber, a finality on the discussion. “Then try to sleep for me.”

Brian groans. “Can’t you try to, then? You’ll be swimming for hours, days...”

Jack reaches down to Brian’s face, cupping his cheek in his palm. “I appreciate your concerns, but I’ll be fine. After all...” the look in Jack’s eyes becomes playful, “I’m not quite human, am I?”

Brian shakes his head, lying it against the edge of the tub. Jack gently runs his fingers through Brian’s thick, long hair. It’s a comfort to both of them that’s capped off by a soft stinging—the knowledge that this first meeting will be the last for a long while.

 _I can’t stop you._ The thought rings in Brian’s dimming mind, fading as his eyelids grow heavy. _I can’t stop you._

_I wish there was a way that I could._

* * *

 

It’s as if winter came in his sleep. The room is gray and cold when Brian opens his eyes, and the silence is like the deepest hour of a snowstorm. For a minute Brian doesn’t know where he is. He certainly isn’t where he was last night; some way or another, he’s ended up slumped in the armchair by the window, the wool blanket twisted all around his body. The window—

With some faint hope, Brian hoists himself around to peer out the window. Under a light frost, he sees the ocean, darkly cloaked under a gray sky and as still as the dead.

There’s nothing out there.

Brian hadn’t expected anything less, yet feels disappointed anyway.

No matter—Brian sighs as he frees himself from the blanket and searches for his thick work boots. He can tell by the rim of light on the horizon that it’s nearly five in the morning, and there’s much work to be done.

Brian nearly trips on his feet as he’s stricken by a cold wind as soon as he gets his head out the door. It isn’t winter yet, but it sits in the day’s breath like a threat. He, of course, thinks again of Jack out there, hoping that he’s already closer to the sun than Brian is.

Brian trudges down to the beach nearly sleepwalking. His eyes are cast down to the sand and pebble on the ground when something catches his attention, and he stops to make sure of what he sees.

A long, shallow trench in the sand, prints of hands framing it on either side as it trails on down to the ocean, where the shadow is lost in a bed of wet gravel. Brian kneels, pressing his palm gently into one of the handprints. He smiles softly as he discovers that their hands fit perfectly together.

Brian approaches the edge of the shore where a stake is driven deep into the wet sand. Tied to this stake by a frayed rope is Brian’s shabby dinghy bobbing in the water, as sun-bleached and rickety as he is. The sun is pressing a finger of light through the clouds as Brian goes nearer.

Brian sets his bait onto the floor when he squints. He’s certain he’s imagining things, but he cannot mistake it upon a second look. Something is lying on the floor of the dinghy; something tiny and shimmering.

Brian gets down on his knees to inspect, and suddenly there’s more glittery things, greeting his eyes like the sun itself. Brian reaches in and swabs with his fingertips, then brings them up to his eyes.

Scales. Small, brilliant turquoise scales scattered all over the floor of his boat like a shower of glass.

Brian stares at his fingertips as if he expects what he sees to suddenly change. There could be no mistaking whose body these were from—the question that remained was of what in the hell Jack wanted in Brian’s broken down boat. Certainly not just for leisurely sit, no.

Brian grunts, determinedly feeling around, searching the boat all over. There must be something else that happened; something that he missed just out the corner of his eye. But after a few minutes there is still nothing—the dinghy is empty, save for Brian, some wind-blown sand, and the tattered remnants of his fishing net, tangled up and stowed under the bench.

The net—

Brian crawls over on hand and knee, squinting and uncertain of what he sees.

The net. Something is in the net, gleaming faintly in the growing light of dawn. Brian reaches out for it, clasps it into the palm of his hand and pulls back.

It’s a shell, a little pink and orange one that twists down into a pointed tip. Through its spiraled crown, a small hole—a bit misshapen, improvised—is driven; through this hole a measure of gray string is laced. Brian’s fingers run across it, finding it to be rope fiber, tough but weathered, identical to the remnants of his own ruined net.

Brian stares for a while, sitting silently in the center of the boat and dangling the necklace against the horizon. The rising sun kisses it slowly, making the shell’s colors vibrantly blush.

Brian, too, blushes. He looks the necklace over again. It’s makeshift work, unmistakably by hand, and there’s no doubt whose hands had done it.

 _Why would he do this?_ half of Brian’s mind is begging to know, while the other half lifts the necklace up to his neck, fingers trembling as he ties the ends. _Why would he do this for me?_

A sigh escapes his lips as he feels the shell settled across his collarbone. The tip points southward, a compass aimed steadily towards his heart—his heart, slowly pumping warm blood throughout his body until the chill of winter has disappeared. Brian’s flesh is rose gold, bathed in the light of the sun that rises up into a blossoming sky—pink and orange and golden, just like _his_ flesh and _his_ hair and—

Brian runs his fingers through his hair and laughs like the madman that he is. They will never believe him, he thinks as he shoves the crooked little boat out into the water and hops in.

There were no mermaids in the sea—certainly not.

(The waves splash against Brian’s skin over the edges of the dinghy. Each feels like a kiss.)

And, even if there were, one would never waste time with a ragged old man like Mr. Kendrick. And certainly—certainly, they wouldn’t share a gift with him, much less embrace him.

The dinghy drifts out far into the sea, where the edge of town looks like a miniature constructed of wood and rust surrounded by the wild oceans. Brian turns to stare before pulling the shell from his chest and kissing it lightly, sealing away the secrets with the touch of his lips before tucking it back into his shirt.

He then looks ahead of himself, away into the endless sea that surrounds him, running up into the edge of the sky where it drifts out further and further, until reaching that nebulous unknown where he swam. Wherever Jack was...

Brian brushes his fingers across the crest of a passing wave, hoping that his touch will travel far. He lifts his eyes to gaze into the rising sun.

_“I love you.”_

Brian whispers it softly, the voice only the seas will hear, the voice that the seas will carry to the ends of the earth in her rolling tides—somehow, he knows it will reach its mark. Brian senses it lying across his chest and in his bones.

And, as Brian settles back down into his dinghy and casts out a line, he hears the sea whispering back to him; a soft voice that only he could understand that washes up to him with every slow wave. It is an assurance. A promise to return.

Brian relaxes as he feels the sun on his skin, and feels comfortable as that promise hangs across his chest.


	2. Cedric/Mustafa (Royalty) (Explicit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prince can think of nothing but his guard after he returns from battle.

Mustafa feels ill as he sits by the edge of the pier, staring at the empty horizon before him.

This is meant to be a day of celebration. Thousands of families will be reunited with their sons, husbands, and fathers when the ships arrive and dock by the harbor. The night of feasting is expected to last well into the next morning.

Yet, a hollow wind rings through Mustafa’s body, threatening to scatter the pieces out into the sea at any moment.

No deaths had been recorded amongst the guard that had been sent out to the conflict in the hinterlands—a miracle in and of itself. But the last message Mustafa had received is printed into his being. He can see it like a phantom when his eyes are shut.

_“Your Resplendency:_

_Cedric injured, l. bicep. Deep gash. Feels very poor.”_

The note carried the smoke wafting from a battlefield—and in the haze, Mustafa’s confidence withered.

A new message came in three weeks’ time, ink smudged from a scrawl of rapid excitement, that the conflict had at last drawn to a ceasefire. Statistics, signatures, a copy of a treaty with several lines for the crown to sign upon, bundled together under a shiny wax seal.

But no further word on the head of his guard. The ache in Mustafa’s throat formed suddenly in that moment in his throne room, before the bowed heads of the messengers—

And so, seated above the crowds of the eager and the desperate upon the granite dais, Mustafa’s throat feels ready to burst. No one looking upon him could ever notice, beneath the features of his face, set calm and still like a serene idol. The duty of the prince is to bury his soul alive.

Ages pass beneath the veil of July heat, and the masses begin to shuffle discordantly. Flesh grows sticky and hot. Yet their prince remains, expression sculpted from ice, unyielding and unmelting beneath the brow of the sun. Mustafa gazes into the unbroken sea, the agonizingly calm waves rolling up into monotony.

Mustafa’s grip on his scepter tightens imperceptibly. It’s all he can do to keep from throwing himself into the water.

It feels like an eternity has passed when the masts rise up, piercing the breast of the sky. Mustafa numbly registers the shrill cry of the crowd, a release of agony that’s turned suddenly into joy. His citizens throb with excitement, rushing to the edge of the dock with fervor that stops just sort of falling into the sea. Mustafa’s blood is rumbling in his veins as he marches down the steps, erect and stiff, amongst his people, who cheer and bless him and thank God, reaching upwards toward him. Mustafa reaches back to them kindly, clasping and touching their hands, though he barely even recognizes the sensation.

The ships, as slowly as it had taken them to reach their destination, seem to have doubled their speed upon sighting their homeland. With an eerie exactness, they are lined up by the pier like a precession, and silently await the word of their sovereign. All goes quiet, and all eyes, even the wind itself, turn to the prince. Some kneel.

The lump that pains Mustafa’s throat so goes unnoticed by the masses as he speaks to them. He feels as though he is sleepwalking through a dream he’s had many times before. _This is a day of great honor. You see before you your fellow man—your families, your brethren. These are our people: diligent, courageous..._

The meaning of the words is lost to him in his haze of fretful thought. Mustafa isn’t even aware his speech has ended until he realizes that he’s gesturing towards the ships, and that the ramps are now flooded with the thousands of warriors exiting the vessels. He watches as the crowds merge into one. Men kneel down to pick up their daughters, barely old enough to walk, and kiss their foreheads. Wives embrace their husbands, each sobbing with relief into the shoulder of the other. Elderly men grasp the hands of their sons. Mustafa feels a soft stirring in his chest to witness a rebirth of his people’s spirit—he feels regret that he cannot share their joy. Not yet.

Next is a long line, weaving back into the capitol and coming to a head at the top step of the dais. Mustafa bows his head with every soldier, offering a solemn prayer and congratulation to each. He fights his hardest to not be terse and speed through rites, but the temptation is difficult to resist. By the time Mustafa is at last approached by one of his advisors, flanked by shipmen, he is certain that the sun has shifted in the sky.

“A magnificent day, my prince...” the advisor notes gaily, bowing at the waist before Mustafa, who only nods.

“The head of my guard, please.” Mustafa licks his lips, dry as ash. “Is he...aboard?”

The advisor waves his hand dismissively. “Please, my prince. You know he’s resilient.”

The tension slides off of Mustafa’s shoulders in an instant. “Oh, God…”

The advisor pats Mustafa’s back, smiling at his clear relief. “Cedric will recover soon. Less than two weeks, even. However…”

That’s enough to cause a little panic to crawl up Mustafa’s spine. He reaches out to grasp his advisor’s shoulders, shaking him slightly. “What? What? Daivari, you tell me…”

The advisor tsks and shakes his head, brushing Mustafa’s hand from his arm. “For God’s sake, calm down...”

Meekly, Mustafa shrinks back, lightly rubbing his neck. “Right. I apologize.”

Ariya sighs, sliding his spectacles off and wiping them with the flared sleeve of his robe.

“All I meant to say,” he says, returning the glasses to his face, “was that he is not to be disturbed at any point this evening—“

Like a child, Mustafa groans and pouts, just short of stamping his foot on the deck. Ariya flashes him a grimace. “Don’t you get upset with me. This is right from the mouth of the medics. Besides, you’ll be plenty busy tonight, won’t you?”

Now it’s Mustafa who grimaces. Tonight will be long with celebration and feasting, and the duty of presiding over the rejoicing public falls to Mustafa. He feels a pang of guilt. Typically, being amongst his citizens during festivities is what he lives for. But without his guard by his seat at the table—without even being able to see him—Mustafa knows there’ll be a grim little cloud over his head all night.

Ariya, sensing his prince’s displeasure, claps an arm onto his shoulder and lowers his voice confidentially.

“Are you going to be alright, Moose?”

Mustafa merely grumbles, patting away Ariya’s hand. “Of course. Of course, I’ll be fine.”

Ariya nods, and bends into a quick bow with the shipmen before they promptly excuse themselves. Once they’ve vanished into the crowds, Mustafa’s eyes turn once again to the massive ship. Two tall guards stand in the entrance, assisting the few stragglers down the ramp, and—more importantly—guarding the sick and wounded who must disembark separately with medical staff. For a moment, Mustafa contemplates a bribe, perhaps even demanding entrance aboard. But he stays put, simply sighing wistfully as he stares. There was no need for him to selfishly interrupt the environment.

At last, Mustafa wraps his robes up to his neck and turns to the city, his city, behind him. There will be much to prepare for that evening, and, hopefully, much to keep him busy.

 

* * *

 

Somehow, Mustafa isn’t preoccupied enough.

It’s almost impossible. The lanterns are strung high to the ceiling, casting the long chiffon cloths on the banquet tables with an amber glow. The dancers, the feasters, the partygoers simply sparkle in the dim light, faces bright and merry as families rejoice in one another’s presence. The band sits on the raised stage, draped by rich silver and purple tapestries and textiles, playing music that’s soft but sweet, somehow energizing and lulling all at once.

Surrounded by love and beauty. Normally the prince could be lost in the scene, but tonight he sits upon the platform feeling as if he were a thousand miles away from everything. The lights, the sounds, the faces; all distant and smudged in his mind—a mind that’s wandering no matter what Mustafa does.

The problem is that he’s so unused to being alone on his right side. Every so often Mustafa cranes up his head to make a comment—“the way they’re dancing, Cedric; what are they _doing_ with their bodies?”—only to find nothing there, and somehow, feel his heart sink even though he’s not at all forgotten the situation.

Mustafa scratches at his neck impatiently. These are his “party clothes”: thick, long robes brocaded with silk borders and gold sashes and red something or others; so detailed and massive that not even he had ever seen them fully. Naturally, after a good four hours of wear (especially when perfectly still, perched on a pillow, save for raising the toast), the whole outfit was oppressively hot and impossibly heavy. Mustafa’s legs fell asleep sometime after hour six.

He looks for some other change in scenery, turning his head to some guests in the corner. A younger couple: he extends his hand warmly; she plays bashful for a moment or two before pulling him in herself. They gaze at each other fondly for a moment, and—

Mustafa turns his head away and growls, again scratching at his neck. Between the weight of his robes and the company all around him, he’s trapped in place.

He needs to escape.

Mustafa looks behind himself. The tall, wide doors leading out of the ballroom into the corridor are unguarded, but he would certainly never get out unnoticed by the crowd of the party. Not unless there were a distraction…

Mustafa’s eyes brighten. He looks around for some official-looking person, perhaps allegedly in his entourage, and eventually settles on a taller man seated at the nobles’ table. Mustafa clears his throat, and points.

“You there.”

The man looks a bit surprised as he stands, but still bows to the hip. “Yes, sire?”

Mustafa motions for the man to come closer, then points to the band onstage.

“Go tell the band leader to call up another dance. This party’s getting stale!”

The man nods in comprehension and bows sharply before running up to the front of the room—Mustafa can’t help but laugh at just how seriously he’d taken the task. On cue, the band lets out a sudden united shout, and their energy is reignited with a vigorous number. The crowd catches the wave in an instant, surging forward to join in the dance, clasping hands and swinging around in a wide circle that snakes all around the ballroom.

Just as planned—Mustafa is left alone in the back of the great hall, and the sudden liveliness catches the seats of nobility before him off guard.

With a rush of excitement, Mustafa slides quickly out of his shoes, creeping to the door on stocking feet. His steps fall as silently as snow as he inches out the door, little by little—waiting for the heartbreaking moment when the wrong head finally turns around and discovers him attempting to shirk his duties. But—miraculously!—the moment never arrives. Mustafa feels a thrill of victory as he shuts the great door behind himself.

Now Mustafa is faced with a wide corridor—a deep, gray granite place covered by shadow and cold. Not a light or soul in sight: almost all of the palace’s primary staff are preoccupied with the festivities. On one hand, this affords Mustafa ready-made stealth. On the other...

Mustafa shivers as a cold wind blows across from the adjacent courtyard, which lies still under the watch of the pale moon.

On the other hand, this is not the most pleasant part of the palace to explore in the dead of night.

Mustafa opts to stay close to the walls, where his fingers slide along, searching for the edges of a door—not that he believes this will mean great progress. The sheer number of rooms, baths, infirmaries, libraries, and galleries afforded by this floor is unknown to even him. And Cedric could be behind any one of those doors.

Mustafa slinks along in near-perfect silence, broken only by the heavy shuffle of the ornate cloth trap he’s still ensnared in. His fingers find the doors rather easily in the darkness, all things considered; however, when Mustafa clicks the outer latches (a quick gesture; pulling twice on the lever of the handle to quickly ask, “is anybody home?”), the only response is silence. The whole hall is filled to its ceiling with an unbearable quiet, and if another ounce were added, Mustafa thinks he may burst. In fact, he’s beginning to question if anyone is even alive in this area. After all, Ariya wasn’t specific as to which floor Cedric would staying on—

Mustafa’s thoughts are interrupted by a sharp ripping sound. He turns with a sense of dread washing over him, and finds his outermost robe has snagged upon a rose topiary in its low, thorny branches, beginning to tear as Mustafa moves forward.

 _“Shit,”_ he whispers, reaching back to attempt to disentangle the mess. No good: the vase the plant rests in jerks with Mustafa’s motion, the base making an awkward ceramic screech that echoes throughout the vast hallway. Shit, shit, shit. No one seemed to be out—but that couldn’t guarantee that noise wouldn’t stir someone to see what the fuss was—there _could_ be someone, couldn’t there? Waiting in the shadows?—nerves get to Mustafa all at once. In a panic, he does the only thing he can think of doing: disentangle _himself_ from the _clothing._ Hurriedly, Mustafa unties and unbuttons layer after layer of brocaded silk and satin, until all of them are sliding off his body, giving him enough space to quickly dash out.

Mustafa shivers. He’s completely exposed now to the cold air, bare save for a silk undergarment about his waist—but, at the very least, he feels about thirty pounds lighter. He turns his head back to the mound of clothes he’s left behind. Without him it’s merely a shapeless, inelegant mass; huge and disgraceful like the corpse of a dragon...

Speaking of disgraces, a soft voice sounds from behind Mustafa’s shoulder, hushed and urgent.

“Your highness!”

Mustafa feels his soul drop out of his body. He’s almost too ashamed to turn his head and look at the shadow looming behind him. He’s certain, that, for a prince, he bears a striking resemblance to a whipped dog at the moment. He even flinches when the figure steps closer—an odd, lopsided movement that seems strained.

“P-prince...?”

The voice has softened, now. The pinpricks of fear in Mustafa’s blood subside as he realizes how familiar it sounds. He takes one step closer to the figure.

“C-Cedric...?”

Now Cedric’s face is fully formed, flushed with embarrassment as he awkwardly tries to bow at the hip for his prince. The task is made more difficult with his arm wrapped up in a white cloth, held closely to his chest in a sling.

“Th-that’s alright, Cedric...” Mustafa murmurs hurriedly as he steps closer. “I...oh, Cedric, I’ve been searching for you...”

Cedric balks a moment as he looks Mustafa up and down, reminding him all at once of how bare he is. “Oh?”

Mustafa blushes, swallowing, trying to moisten his dry throat. “It...was quite a journey...”

Though he can’t quite see it in the darkness, Mustafa can feel the weary smile that comes across Cedric’s face. “You’re telling me...”

Mustafa nods, motions quick and nervous. “May I...” he pauses to drag his tongue across his lips, “m-may I come in?”

For a moment, there is silence, before Cedric tersely asks, “is anyone else with you?”

Mustafa shakes his head rapidly, so much so that his hair beats against his own face. “No, no. Not a soul, I made sure of that. Please.”

Cedric sighs, slowly pulling the door open. He could never deny his prince—especially not when he begged.

There is a single oil lamp on Cedric’s night stand, its light making the room feel golden and comforting. Or perhaps that’s just the effect Cedric’s presence has on Mustafa’s spirit. Even weary and battle torn, his eyes are still the same in the soft light of the lamp, deep and dark brown and so warm. Mustafa can’t help himself but smile.

“Cedric...” he sighs, settling into the armchair by the bed. “It feels like it’s been months.”

Cedric flashes Mustafa a tired smile as he settles back into mattress (Mustafa notes how he grunts painfully). “Only five weeks, my lord...”

Mustafa shakes his head. “No, no. No ‘my prince’ or ‘my lord’ or anything right now.”

Cedric’s smirk is breezy and effortless, just like himself. “Why not? You’re my prince...and I like that.”

Mustafa feels the blood rush into his cheeks, but does his best to replicate the smirk. “I’ve told you again and again, dearest knight,” he purrs, leaning over Cedric’s body, “you are not to call me any of those when we’re spending time alone together...”

 _“Nnnng...”_ Cedric lets out a hiss of pain through his teeth. “M-Mustafa...my...”

Mustafa glances down at himself, and finds his hand placed flat against Cedric’s wound. He backs away quickly.

Now, in their isolation, Mustafa can at last have a look at the injury. The edges of a deep gash, crusted black with dry blood, are visible, peeking out from the corners of the gauze that’s pasted onto his arm—gauze that was once white, now mottled with pink and green stains from the seepage of the wound and the herbs ground against it. Cedric’s arm remains pinned to his chest with a cloth, tightly wound and tied, to keep him from moving it around in excess. Now Mustafa understands why he was told to stay away.

“I-I am so sorry...” Mustafa murmurs, face warm with shame. Cedric grunts, rolling to prop himself up on his free elbow.

“No, no. It’s okay,” he says, giving Mustafa a brave smile, that, no matter how forced, makes the prince sigh.

“I wish I’d never sent you out there...” Mustafa says wistfully, slowly lying on the narrow edge of the bed by Cedric’s side. “Look what it’s gotten you.”

Cedric shrugs a shoulder and chuckles. “Come on, my—Mustafa. You’ve seen me have worse falls than this.”

Mustafa shakes his head. His eyes are faraway, tracking something beyond the boundaries of the ceiling. “You were out in that mess. All of you...” A knot forms in Mustafa’s throat. “Y-you could have—“

 _“Enough.”_ Cedric intervenes. “We didn’t. _I_ didn’t. This is now.”

Mustafa sighs. Cedric’s touch is as soft and gentle against his skin as ever, but it isn’t full comfort. “Don’t you get tired, Cedric? Tired of just throwing your life on the line for...” Mustafa pauses to shake his head in disbelief. “For _me?”_

Cedric looks dismayed by the very question. “My prince...it’s my duty to do everything in your name...”

Mustafa groans. Cedric’s voice is so dedicated that it’s simply painful; painful that he’s so adamant about this.

“You deserve more than this, Cedric...”

Cedric sighs. “Alright, then. May I be so bold, then, to ask you what it is that I deserve?”

Mustafa’s eyes fall shut as he imagines it.

“A palace...one of your very own. Made all out of gold, and a kingdom to go with it. Ten thousand horses. So many servants you need a second palace—“

Cedric laughs so suddenly it jars Mustafa out of thought. “Servants?” He chuckles, beaming in amusement. “Who in the hell would be _my_ servant?”

Mustafa lies still a moment, trying to think of it. Soon he opens his eyes, wearing a slight, playful smile.

“I don’t know. Who do you _want_ to be your servant?”

There. The look crosses Cedric’s eyes in an instant, and no matter how he tries to hide it, Mustafa notices. A little thrill of excitement tinted by darkness; the quick sweep of his eyes up Mustafa’s mostly bare body. Their eyes meet in that fleeting second, and in almost the same moment, Cedric’s face flushes and turns away.

“C-Cedric...?” Mustafa inches forward, only for Cedric to flinch nervously away. Mustafa feels himself beginning to smirk. “My, my...sir Cedric...”

“Forgive me!” Cedric bursts, immediately flopping forward onto his knees, pressing his forehead into the mattress in an attempt to bow before his prince. “Please, forgive me! I didn’t mean it!”

“Hold still!” Mustafa groans, taking Cedric’s unwounded shoulder and pressing him back into the mattress. “You’ll hurt yourself, thrashing like that...”

Cedric merely averts his eyes in shame, cheeks dusted red. “I...I’m sorry. I just shouldn’t look at you with those eyes.”

Mustafa sighs. Sometimes, Cedric is simply too difficult to get through to. Even after the countless nights they’d spent together, taken up to each other’s rooms to discuss “matters of the state”, or sequestered in a barracks after a lull in training—Cedric still insisted on being a gentleman.

“Believe me...” Mustafa whispers, tracing up Cedric’s stomach, snaking around his abs, “I know all about those eyes of yours by now, Cedric...”

Cedric gasps softly as Mustafa’s fingers stray over him. For a moment, the pain of the wound on his arm, the pain that’s been throbbing deep in his flesh for days, is suddenly erased, dominated by the gentleness of the prince’s touch. Cedric’s body subtly arches up into it, not wanting it to escape.

“P-prince, prince, _please..._ ” Cedric is already begging. Mustafa feels satisfied with how little time it took.

“I told you to say my name...” Mustafa says with a mock sigh. “I don’t know if I can go on, if—“

 _“Mustafa,”_ Cedric croaks out pleadingly, “Mustafa, _please...”_

Mustafa is satisfied by that—or perhaps he’s satisfied with the way Cedric’s lips tremble as he speaks, looking so warm and soft, almost begging themselves to be kissed. Or, perhaps, it’s Cedric’s body, toned and perfect even after the scarring and exhaustions of battle—especially his chest, so broad and powerful, which is, at present, rising and falling with his gradually quickening breath.

Whatever it is, Mustafa at last slips over, carefully straddling Cedric’s waist. A shock of hunger flickers in his deep brown eyes the moment he does so.

“Yes...that’s what I like to hear...” Mustafa purrs. At once Cedric looks as adoring as a child—and Mustafa can’t keep down a chuckle at his loving expression. “Oh, Cedric...you do _love_ serving me...”

“Yes. _Yes.”_ Cedric’s response is breathless and immediate. He gazes up at his prince, straddling him—straddling him almost bare, his decency only barely preserved by the thin silk garment around his waist. The hunger rolls through Cedric’s veins again. He could just tear that cloth off with a single hand and expose everything, leave this divine body open to the night air; let the moon and stars witness him: the heavenly prince stripped naked in his guard’s bed.

He and Mustafa meet eyes, staring deeply into and through each other. Slowly, Mustafa smirks, as if every microcosm of filth that had just formed in Cedric’s mind had flashed across his own.

“Good, good boy...” Mustafa whispers, and it nearly sends Cedric into ecstasy. “But...”

“W-what, what?” Cedric gasps, his body beginning to tremble from the tension capped within him. Mustafa can feel the bulge of his cock growing, pressing slowly into his thigh.

“You said just now, didn’t you...” Mustafa hums, and can’t help but to pause for a long second, waiting until Cedric looks like he’s about to burst. “That you’d like me as a servant.”

Cedric moans, pressing his head back into the pillow. “No, no, w-wrong...I l-love to serve—“

“Shhhh.” Mustafa delicately rests a fingertip over Cedric’s lips, hushing him. Cedric only barely staves off his impulse to suckle it into his mouth.

“I do believe you’re in luck, Sir Cedric...” Mustafa softly sighs, slowly slinking up to Cedric’s ear to deliver a decisive blow, “...my lord.”

All of the air leaves Cedric’s lungs in an instant. He sputters uselessly, staring into Mustafa’s glimmering brown eyes, waiting for the joke to be revealed, but it never comes—his expression remains deeply serious.

Cedric stares at the way Mustafa moves, slinking gracefully down from the bed onto the floor. He gets on his knees in a way that’s so fucking _flawless_ it makes him want to cry; poised perfectly with his back up straight, hands placed delicately upon his lap. Mustafa tilts his head and looks up at Cedric through his long lashes, as innocent as a helpless doe. But the feint can’t hide what’s about to come—Cedric has known the prince far too long to be fooled by that again. His liege was the host of deep rebellious tendencies. Looking into Mustafa’s eyes, Cedric could sense them now emerging in full.

Mustafa just purrs, innocently lifting his fingers to his lips, pressed into a playful, plump pout.

“Please, my lord...” he whispers in a voice that seems designed to make Cedric shiver, “you’ve given so much to protect your country and serve your prince...”

He pauses, reaching down and finding the strings that hold his white garment onto his body. He pulls them slowly, _mockingly_ slow; Cedric can somehow feel every fiber gliding against each other in his skin.

“I beg that you let your little prince serve you.”

He’s naked. Sitting on his knees, pliant and delicate, every inch of him just _there_ like some kind of temptation, his soft, tan skin shimmering and golden, all for his hands to grasp.

Cedric lets out a sort of pathetic sob just staring at him. It’s almost unfair. After ten thousand times seeing his prince this way, it still leaves him unable to speak.

It’s those seconds of stunned silence from Cedric, in fact, that spur Mustafa to speak. “Go ahead…” He says with a sly, promising smirk. “I’m at your command.”

 _“H-h-h…a-a-ah…”_ Cedric’s mouth makes sounds before his mind is ready to make words, still catching up with the situation at hand. “I…I’m…”

Mustafa tilts his head in a way that he really shouldn’t; the playful “innocence” is enough that it nearly destroys Cedric’s train of thought all over again, but Cedric claws into the sheets and tries to stay afloat.

“I-is it okay?” Cedric finally manages to ask. “I-is this real…?” Mustafa smiles, mysteriously and beautifully.

“I don’t know…” he says. Suddenly, Mustafa boldly reaches forward, grasping Cedric’s available hand and guiding it forward. Cedric gasps—deeply, out loud—as he feels the skin of his prince’s chest beneath his hand; as Mustafa holds it there for him to touch.

All at once, a wave is released over Cedric, as if all the time that they’d been separated had suddenly doubled and rained down over his head in that moment—and Mustafa’s flesh is breaking for air. _Five weeks apart._ Cedric finally realizes how starving he is.

Moaning, almost growling, Cedric reaches and firmly grabs Mustafa’s arm, jerking him up onto the bed (obligingly, Mustafa scrambles up willingly, moaning himself), then pinning him down flat to the mattress. The impact knocks a low gasp out of Mustafa’s lungs, and he rolls his head back against the pillow, where all his thick, dark hair is spread out like unspooled silk. He looks so heavenly that Cedric almost feels guilty for wanting to fuck him out of consciousness.

“M-my lord…” Mustafa softly moans, a hand sliding up Cedric’s strong, broad chest, “y-your arm…mind your arm…”

“Oh?” Cedric breathes out, deeply. “What if I wanna push you down and use you? What about that?”

Mustafa feels his skin rising up and tingling at the very idea, and shudders, but tries not to give in. “G-give me a c-command...” he murmurs, still cutely struggling against Cedric (even with one arm, Cedric is still impressively strong). “A-any word...”

Cedric tilts his head back, looking down at Mustafa with a smirk. “Any word?”

Mustafa rapidly nods, his eyes glimmering again as he purrs. “I’ll obey _anything_...”

Slowly, Cedric leans away, freeing Mustafa (and for a fleeting second, Mustafa feels disappointment in no longer being trapped) and lying back in the mattress. The prince can’t help but tremble at the sight of him sprawled out in the bed, somehow lazy and powerful at once. He looks like a god—and Mustafa is the sacrifice, offered up on a golden plate.

Cedric pats his thigh. “Come.”

Mustafa swallows, forgetting his own teasing for a moment as he eagerly crawls up Cedric’s body into his lap.

“Y-yes, master...” he whispers, feeling the tremors in his voice as he speaks.

Cedric gestures again to show Mustafa where to lie, and the prince curls up by his side like a kitten. His guard’s flesh is warm against his own skin. Mustafa sighs just to feel his presence again.

“Now...” Cedric begins, pointing at his own pants—pajamas to rest in, made of soft white satin. “I want these off.”

“Yes, master...” Mustafa slips down to Cedric’s hip without a question, trying not to whimper as his own cock drags against the mattress. Instead, he focuses on Cedric, on slowly untying the front of his pants until they’re finally loosened enough to take down. Cedric is patient, merely watching Mustafa as he works, tugging down the edges of the pajamas and slowly bunching them down Cedric’s thighs (a difficult task, considering how thick and soft Cedric’s thighs are).

“O-oh...” a moan escapes Cedric’s lips, and Mustafa looks up, only for a little shock to zip up his spine. True, he’d expected to see it; he’s already seen it countless times by now, in fact. But still, even after all this time, seeing Cedric’s cock exposed and bouncing, thick and warm and completely full for his prince—of course, Mustafa finds himself feeling absolutely thrilled by the sight of it every time.

Cedric, on his part, reaches down and squeezes it, fingers trailing slowly up his shaft. A bead of precum, white and thick, forms at his tip, and all at once Mustafa’s lips and throat feel so dry. He swallows, tongue dragging across his lips, and trembles, which elicits a laugh from Cedric.

“Nervous?” He asks, still gently squeezing at his cock. As teasing as his smile is, there is a calm, loving look in his eyes. Mustafa senses what he’s really asking—“do you need me to stop?”—and vigorously shakes his head. Cedric’s knowing grin widens even further.

“You want something, don’t you?”

Mustafa hoarsely laughs, trying to override the feeling of his own cock beginning to burn. “Is it o-obvious, master?”

Cedric looks down upon Mustafa with both sympathy and self-satisfaction, a hand resting on his cheek. The prince-turned-slave’s eyelids flutter, relaxing into his touch.

“You always have been obvious with what you want...”

Cedric smirks as he trails off into a pause, watching as Mustafa’s eyes fly back open, clinging onto his voice as if the end of the sentence is the most important thing in the whole universe. He’s gone, succumbing completely to Cedric’s size and warmth and shape. Cedric smiles as he tips back Mustafa’s head by the chin, making the dim light catch his face in the most beautiful way, outlining the contours of him like the burnished edges of gold, but infinitely more valuable.

“...servant.”

The finish strikes a chord within Mustafa; causes him to shiver and fade out of self-respecting consciousness as his hips squirm, tongue poking out from his lips as his whole body seems to cry out _“please fuck me now”._

Cedric laughs, reaching up to Mustafa’s head and delicately stroking his long, dark hair. “Don’t worry, baby; don’t worry...”

Cedric senses the hunger in Mustafa’s eyes, deep and hollow and begging to be filled with something. His warm little mouth hangs open as he stares at Cedric’s cock, just _there_ right in front of his face and making his hunger even more violent inside of him, but leaving his head clouded and his tongue swollen. He can’t speak—but that’s nothing that Mustafa needs to be concerned with right now. He won’t have to say a word.

Cedric doesn’t speak, either; merely presses his tip up until it’s pressed against Mustafa’s soft, warm lips—lips that Mustafa opens without hesitation, taking Cedric’s cock into his mouth. Cedric groans softly. The prince is eager, can’t even wait for Cedric to set the pace; Mustafa’s mouth, hot and wet inside, envelops his master’s head before finding itself deeper around his shaft, suckling on it with a sort of breathless need that Cedric can barely handle.

Cedric’s head slackens back into the pillow as he moans, Mustafa’s hunger making him weak, almost helpless to his whim. Cedric draws down one hand, aimlessly patting the air until he finally finds the back of Mustafa’s head, covered in that thick, black hair. It feels calm beneath his fingertips, smooth and perfect in spite of all their thrashing. For a moment, he questions if he’s even worthy to _touch_ the stuff—but then Mustafa makes a delicate, purr-like sound as he presses his head back against Cedric’s hand, reminding Cedric that he’s been appointed the master this evening. Then Cedric goes ahead and pulls on the prince’s perfect hair with abandon, and the gentle purr becomes a full-throated moan as Mustafa shivers, back arching in sweetly.

Cedric guides his head forward as if by a set of reins, pressing Mustafa’s mouth further around his cock until, at last, the moan becomes a soft gagging sound. Mustafa gazes up at Cedric with deep brown eyes, choked with tears of pain of the most divine order. They seem pleading, almost sorry; as if they’re saying that if he could go any deeper he would in an instant.

For a moment, Cedric keeps him there in place, letting his mighty prince choke around the thickness of his warm, full cock. The cruelty almost surprises even himself, until he can no longer stand it and quickly pulls Mustafa away.

“Breathe, breathe…” he calmly instructs, stroking Mustafa’s hair like he’s comforting a fawn. Mustafa sits there, wheezing and choking, a string of precum stuck to his lips...and his eyes—his eyes are burning, gleaming with tears and lust, so deep and dark that Cedric wonders if he’ll fall into them headfirst.

His thoughts are interrupted when Mustafa begins squirming, trying to press his face back down to Cedric’s warm, heavy cock. A pathetic mewling comes from his lips in a steady stream.

“G-give it...give iiit...”

Cedric’s mouth twists into a knowing smile. “Don’t worry, now...I told you...”

He lays a hand aside Mustafa’s cheek, cupping his face. The action seems to send lightning through his little prince’s brain, evoking a gasp, his eyelids fluttering. The writhing continues, however, fighting to get closer to his superior’s erection—no matter. With his one arm wrapped around his waist, Cedric suddenly tugs Mustafa up until they’re at eye level, and, before the prince can even marvel at his strength, ensnares him in a powerful kiss. An eternity blossoms in a second between them before Cedric pulls away, leaving Mustafa dizzy, lips hot and tingling.

“I’m gonna take care of you...”

Cedric’s words are somewhere on the spectrum between a promise and a threat, but Mustafa can only nod. This is everything he’s spent the last month waiting for.

With his one available hand holding him steady, Cedric can’t properly aim his cock and line it up, but Mustafa is more than willing to take care of that himself. With a bit of a murmur—impatience, perhaps—he shifts his hips, guiding himself until, with a gasp, he feels the warm pressure of Cedric’s thick cock resting against his twitching hole. When he sees the little prince shiver, Cedric smirks with no shortage of appreciation.

“Good job...” he coos softly into Mustafa’s ear. The words seem to have some sort of weight, a force of their own that makes Mustafa moan and spread his legs out further.

“P-please, my lord...give it to me _now..._ ”

“No, no...” Cedric tsks. “Not all at once. I’m not going give it all to you just because you’re needy.”

Now Mustafa is whimpering—a pathetic sound; not fitting for a prince but for a wounded animal. Something about that makes Cedric smirk more; forces him to keep going and lean even closer to Mustafa’s ear.

“No, slave...” he says, a purr bordering on a growl. “I’m going to savor it.”

He pulls away to look into Mustafa’s face. His mouth is bitten shut into a stoic line, trying to preserve the last of his dignity as he nods—but his eyes are simply shattered, broken entirely to Cedric’s will. And that’s just what Cedric can’t resist.

He decides to begin gently, a careful half of a thrust up against Mustafa’s entrance. There’s a clenching as if in recoil. Cedric shakes his head, looking up at Mustafa with expectant eyes.

“Relax for me.”

There is only the suggestion of a command in Cedric’s voice, but it’s still enough to make Mustafa’s throat clench. As per his master’s words, however, he tries to force a breath through himself and loosen his muscles. Cedric thrusts up again—Mustafa remains too tight.

“I-I’m sorry…” Mustafa whimpers, eyes cast down and frustrated. Cedric, however, doesn’t speak; just reaches forward and runs his hand up Mustafa’s spine, eliciting a purr from the prince as he bows his back in. Cedric smiles.

“It’s alright, slave...” he whispers. Mustafa immediately seems somewhat calmed by his voice, body swaying as it relaxes. Cedric hums as he gently strokes Mustafa’s side. An idea forms.

“Turn around.”

Mustafa’s eyelids creak open as he makes a soft, questioning hum. Cedric nods. “Turn around. Right over my chest...”

Mustafa stumbles but obeys, inverting himself over Cedric’s body. His little ass is over Cedric’s chest, lifted up shyly into the air. Cedric huffs, smiling as he slowly drags himself up to lean against the headboard, staring down at the prince’s pink little hole.

“Good boy.”

Mustafa seizes up, breathless to the point of almost choking as Cedric suddenly presses a finger deep inside of him. A faint whimper leaves his lips.

_“A-a-aaaaah...”_

Cedric smirks. “See?” He purrs, drawing his finger out slowly, “now you’re relaxed...”

Mustafa shivers, thoughts distant and glittering as Cedric thrusts his finger in deeper. He’s not just relaxed, but melting, falling apart right in front of his master, knees already weak and wobbling. Of course Cedric is being so careful—just one to start off with, and his pace is generously slow. That doesn’t matter. It’s his skin, his touch, his presence here and now after having been away, anywhere else but with his needy little prince—that’s what’s too much for Mustafa. That’s why just this, already, is almost enough to make him drown.

Cedric can tell, too; he can see it in Mustafa’s glowing eyes, can feel it in the way he keens and twitches with every little thrust. With curiosity, he twists in a second finger to join the first, and finds the effect doubled as Mustafa lets out a shrill, airless noise. Tension leaves him as if through a puncture. Cedric can’t help but be a bit pleased, gently skimming his fingers through the prince’s deep dark hair.

“Yeah, baby...that’s perfect, isn’t it...”

Mustafa lets out a wail that’s meant to be a stand-in for “yes” as Cedric keeps thrusting. The English language has already been lost in the fog of bliss.

For a moment, it almost seems to dissipate as Cedric’s thick fingers suddenly glide out of Mustafa, leaving him cold without his warmth—but before he can even pout about it, he’s being flipped over onto his back, staring into the face of a man who had all sorts of awful plans for him. He realizes the storm is only beginning.

“M-master...” he gapes at nothing in particular. The master dips in close, silencing him with a kiss (such a kiss; the kind only Cedric could provide—so gentle and warm, yet driven, protective to the point that it nearly becomes possessive). He’s aching with anticipation and desire by now, both of them are; it’s so much that just Cedric lining his tip up to Mustafa’s entrance is enough to elicit a moan from either of them. Now, Mustafa seems far more relaxed, purring rather than flinching when Cedric thrusts—a practice thrust, just barely adding pressure against his twitching hole, testing to see how his prince reacts, and the reaction is bliss. Still, Cedric’s hand crawls forward, up Mustafa’s chest and against his cheek. He only trills like a kitten, leaning into the palm’s warmth like he’ll die without it. Cedric smirks.

“I think you’re ready...” his pauses, taking in a slow breath and looking down at Mustafa. Though his eyes remain closed, he bites at that pretty lower lip of his, and Cedric can feel him shivering. He smirks.

“...Slaaaave...”

He draws it out a bit, perhaps too much, just so he can enjoy seeing the prince squirming under him for just a minute more, but finally, the reward comes to him. Cedric’s hips glide forward, driving up into his poor little prince—it’s a slow and careful thing, like the slow release of a valve, inch by inch as he sinks into Mustafa’s heat until they’re connected by the hips. Cedric is already shaking from the pressure, and so is Mustafa as the tip of Cedric’s cock is already resting close to his core, teasing his nerves.

Mustafa’s eyes flutter open and lock with Cedric’s. They stare just a moment, watching the other breathe. The silence rings loudly in their ears.

Cedric crumbles first, groaning as he drags his cock out, making Mustafa whimper as it drags against the nerves in his soft, hot walls. Then the _frenzy_ that they both have been dying for so long finally begins. Cedric is losing himself rapidly as he thrusts, forgetting his mind and existence as everything else funnels down, tunnel vision; even when he is the master, Mustafa is his whole world.

He’s faintly aware, over the filthy sound his cock makes as he pounds back into Mustafa’s hole hard, skin on skin, that he ought to be used to all this but never quite made it. The prince never got any less hot, any less tight or silky inside; his ass never stopped being any less of a dream to slam into after a hard day of training or battle or— _shit,_ the hell he’s been through. Mustafa was right: Cedric deserved this prize.

And the prince—slave—whatever the fuck he’s supposed to be right now (he isn’t even sure when Cedric is taking him so roughly the bed is creaking forth); he can’t believe how new it still all feels after all this time. No matter how often Cedric has taken him, every night that came was as raw and unrelenting as the night Mustafa’s virginity was lost. He feels every detail of his guard’s—his _master’s—_ cock inside of him, thick and heavy, every vein and pulse known to him like the back of his hand.

Yet it never grows to be a bore. Cedric is is too electric, too a part of Mustafa’s own soul, and too good at just fucking that soul out of him until he’s drooling and stammering nonsense half-phrases. And Mustafa is already speaking gibberish.

 _“Mm-mmm-hahh...s-suh-Cedriiiccc, d-d...myyyy...”_ Mustafa is choking, Cedric filling him up to his throat, practically, every twist of his warm, heavy cock teasing even deeper towards just that sweet spot—it seems almost impossible, with how roughly Cedric is pulling Mustafa over him, that he hasn’t just dived headlong into it yet.

Perhaps it’s some of that deliberate cruelty on his part, that warrior spirit. Instead of dragging Mustafa half-dead across the battlefield, he’s dragging him across orgasm, sagging breathless on the ground and feeling every grain of sand on the way.

But those eyes—Cedric’s eyes, dark brown and full, soaking up every drop of light thrown off by the flickering oil lamp, trained on Mustafa with a loyalty towards his form—those aren’t the eyes of a warrior. They’re the same eyes that have gazed at Mustafa for so long, sometimes across the room, often looming over him, always steadfast at his right side. _His_ eyes. The eyes of his guard, sometimes his subordinate and sometimes his master, always his closest friend and always his lover—

The throbbing in the prince’s heart spills over with a shudder. He rises suddenly up from the mattress and latches his legs around Cedric, pulling him down into a kiss that’s so hot and close that sweat drops off of one onto the other. Cedric moans into his mouth as his cock sinks down to the hilt, at last stabbing into the nerve that he’s been teasing all night. That’s all that Mustafa needs. His whole body tightens and uncurls inside and out, practically sobbing against Cedric’s hot lips as his cock finally sprays his stomach with heavy cum.

Cedric isn’t far behind. One more pulse of the hips sends him tumbling into the same depths that he’s explored with Mustafa before, familiar and warm but never any less sweet. He shivers, still gently thrusting through the orgasm and rambling half-formed language. Mustafa does the same below him. Being filled by Cedric feels almost better than orgasm itself.

At last they collapse against each other. Cedric regains his vision from oblivion first and sees his prince in his arms, locks of hair stuck fast to his flushed face, gasping for breath. Cedric works his good arm out from under his side, wrapping it around Mustafa’s shoulders and pulling him into his chest. The prince rests there happily against his guardian, each listening to the sound of the other catching their breath.

When Cedric at last catches his, he doesn’t speak for a moment; just looks down at Mustafa against his chest, eyelids fluttering as he teeters on the edge of sleep. Cedric brushes away a lock of hair that’s fallen across Mustafa’s face. This causes him to stir, blink and look up at Cedric with eyes that are still dazed, uncertain of where he even is. Cedric gives him a somewhat regretful smile.

“Time for you to get back to that party, isn’t it?”

Mustafa moans, pouting and pressing his face into Cedric’s broad chest, still glistening with sweat. “Nuh uh,” he says rather smushedly, “not without you.”

“Come on, now...” Cedric hums, tilting up Mustafa’s face by a loose grip on his hair, “you know they’ve noticed you’re gone by now. What’re you going to tell them when you stumble out of this room tomorrow?”

Mustafa contemplates this a moment in silence before lifting his eyes back up. “I’ll say I was with the master and leave it at that.”

Cedric laughs, soft and hoarse in a way that crawls through Mustafa’s veins and causes him to blush. Finally, they’re back on even ground, the way they were always meant to be. Outside of the constrictions of royal conduct or the passing of kinky words from one to another, Mustafa knows. In bed with Cedric there is no prince or guard, nor, despite the conceit of their exchanges, master or subordinate. It is only the two of them, stripped down to their bases and given all of each other to take. Cedric is every bit Mustafa’s equal—and this will always be their way of celebrating that fact.

Mustafa leans in. With a tender kiss on Cedric’s temple, he whispers, “I love you, Cedric.”

Cedric smiles brightly, eyes drifting shut. “I love you too, my prince.”

“Please, Cedric...” he sighs, smirking knowingly, “just Mustafa.”

* * *

 

It’s only about ten minutes later when the prince finally peels himself from his guard to return to his duties. Mustafa slips out of the door, careful to be silent as he shuts it behind him—Cedric has melted back into sleep, and Mustafa would rather die than disturb him.

Now, looking down at himself, he’s conscious of being underdressed again, clad only in his silk undergarment. Which way did he come? Mustafa looks left and right, hoping to find the mass of robes still lying somewhere out in the halls like a decaying husk. If he could just retrieve it and slip into it again—

“Prince.”

Mustafa’s blood freezes in his veins, turning into pins. He stays motionless as Ariya emerges from behind a pillar, eyes unamused behind his spectacles. Something is folded up in his arms.

Mustafa’s throat dries. “What are you doing here?” He croaks. Ariya shrugs, then drops the big sheetlike object to the ground, where it lands with a deep _“whumpf”_.

“It looks as though you’ve lost something, prince.”

Mustafa swallows hard. It’s his robes. Of _course_ it’s his robes.

“How long have you been...?” Mustafa trails off, voice lost in a nervous crackle.

Ariya’s features remain stiff. “Long enough, I promise.”

Mustafa feels his soul drop into his feet. _Shit. He heard everything._

“Please, Daivari, please,” Mustafa begs, raising his hands up as if to prove some innocence he does not have, “I will do anything if you just don’t—“

“Forget it.” Ariya cuts the prince off sharply. Mustafa looks taken aback.

“W...what?”

“I said,” Ariya repeats, turning his face away, “forget it. Nothing happened. We will return to the party as such.”

Mustafa blinks for a moment, dumbfounded. He takes a step closer to Ariya, whose head remains turned away, jaw clenched shut. He perceives that his cheeks are darkened, almost flushed—wait.

_He heard EVERYTHING._

A smile forms on Mustafa’s lips, conjured up from equal embarrassment and amusement. “Mr. Daivari—“

“Enough!” Ariya finally snaps, voice trembling slightly. “I’ve already told you to forget the damn thing! Now move!”

Mustafa merely smirks, giving a bit of a haughty bow of the head to Ariya as he passes, snatching up his robes.

“As you wish, dearest advisor!”

Ariya grimaces a bit as Mustafa walks ahead, trying to rid himself of the filth on his mind.

He can’t keep letting the prince get away with this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did YOU spot the part where I fucked up and gave Cedric two working hands? I’ll come back to fix that at some point.


End file.
